Knife Edge

by Fergus McNeill

  She bit her lip, then sighed.

  ‘It’s not all right though,’ she said, avoiding his gaze. ‘I feel as if I’m taking advantage of you.’

  That was true as well.

  ‘You’re not.’ He said it flatly, as though it were a simple, obvious fact. ‘I’m happy for you to stay with me.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I want you to stay.’ There was no pleading, no desperation, but she knew he meant it.

  ‘I’m not sure I can do what you want …’ She hesitated as it dawned on her what she had meant to say, then added, ‘I’m not sure I can be who you want.’

  His eyes left hers, and for a long moment he stared out towards the skyline. Finally, he bowed his head.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, but it was obvious from the hollow tone in his voice that he understood; he just needed to hear her speak the words.

  ‘You lost your wife.’ She hated herself for saying it, but it couldn’t be helped. ‘You lost your wife, and I found out I was living with a murderer.’ She shook her head. ‘We’re both … running away from really bad things.’

  She expected him to walk away – to get to his feet, snarl some cold rebuke and stride off down the hill – but he didn’t. She could see the upset in his face, but he mastered it and turned back to her, holding her gaze steadily.

  ‘So?’ Just the one word, spoken softly, as though inviting her to hit him again.

  It was impossible. Couldn’t he see she was trying to spare him?

  ‘You’ve been so sweet – you’ve been so kind …’ She reached out a hand and gently touched the side of his face. ‘I just don’t want you getting hurt.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m going to get hurt?’

  ‘Because I’m bad luck to be around,’ she snapped. ‘Sooner or later, I always screw things up. OK?’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’ He didn’t flinch, just carried on looking at her.

  ‘It’s true,’ she insisted. ‘I always drive people away. I always have.’

  Her father. Her mother. Even Rob. Everyone who ever cared for her, and she had pushed them all away.

  ‘Do you want to drive me away?’

  She looked up sharply. ‘What?’

  ‘I said, do you want to drive me away, Kim?’

  ‘No, of course not, but—’

  ‘Then don’t.’ Again, the matter-of-fact tone, as though it were as simple as making a decision. ‘I want to be with you, that’s the choice I’ve made. Stop worrying about me and let’s just see where things go.’

  She lowered her eyes, but he leaned forward and held her gaze.

  ‘Please, Kim …’

  She stared at him, not knowing what to say. What more could she say?

  ‘Kim?’

  Slowly, she moved her head close to his, gave him a sad little smile and kissed him. As her eyes closed, she felt his arms enfold her and she rested her head against his shoulder.

  She had warned him.

  47

  Wednesday, 10 September

  It had been a frustrating couple of weeks.

  When Kim hadn’t returned to the guest house in Taunton, Naysmith had been mildly annoyed, but not particularly concerned. Standing at the window of his room in the small hours of the morning, gazing down at the half-empty car park, he assumed that she had spent the night with Sarah. In the morning, he’d risen early and driven across town to check the streets around her sister’s house.

  No sign of her car. No sign of her.

  Two days later, he’d passed through Taunton late at night, checking both locations, and again on his way back from an appointment in Exeter the following week. Still nothing.

  Kim had disappeared.

  Part of him was annoyed that she’d given him the slip, but on another level he knew it would help to prolong the chase, and that was a positive.

  Back at home, he found himself restless, rattling around a house that suddenly seemed a little too big, a little too quiet. Annoyed at his own foolishness, he stretched himself out lengthways across the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, watching as the dark wooden beams reflected the flickering glow of the TV set.

  He needed to pick himself up, test himself so that he felt alive again. It was a pity that she’d gone when she had. He’d loved the thought of her selecting his targets. Whom might she have picked out for him next?

  He leaned across, taking a glass of gin from the table beside him and sipping reflectively before returning it to its coaster and letting his head ease back onto the armrest. If only she hadn’t chosen to go to the police …

  He paused as the glimmer of an idea came to him.

  But she had chosen. She had chosen the police!

  He stared up at the ceiling, a cold smile spreading across his face.

  Yes. A most fitting target, and there was an elegant symmetry to the whole thing.

  He dropped his feet to the floor and rolled upright into a sitting position.

  Who better to represent the police than the man who had almost caught him before? The man whom he could so easily have killed …

  Naysmith nodded to himself. He and Detective Harland had unfinished business to resolve. They’d actually met twice, though Harland didn’t know it. Once, when they’d raced along the Docklands waterfront in the small hours of the morning, two silhouettes running through the darkness, until he’d got the drop on the detective and left him unconscious. And before that, they’d passed within inches of each other when Naysmith had, rather recklessly, followed him into a pub in Portishead …

  Portishead. That was the place to start.

  But he couldn’t afford to be reckless this time. Harland must surely have seen his photograph by now, so he would need to be extremely careful if he was to track down the detective without being spotted. And of course, the nature of his job meant it would be almost impossible for Naysmith to take him when he was at work.

  But what an accomplishment it would be. What a challenge!

  He would need to get to know Harland, understand his routine and learn where he went. It would be fascinating to study his adversary, and that would surely make the conclusion of the chase so very satisfying.

  And then, once he’d dealt with Harland, he would devote his attention to Kim.

  He was busy for the next few days, and it was Monday before he was able to slip a false appointment into his work diary. He woke early, but lay in bed for some time, knowing that there was no point rushing. He already knew where his target worked.

  After a leisurely breakfast, he finally set off just before eleven, locking the door on the empty house behind him. There was no need for elaborate cover stories or careful excuses now – it was just him and the target today. Like it used to be, in the days before Kim.

  He sighed and walked across to the car. Sliding in behind the wheel, he started the engine, then sat for a moment, flicking through the radio channels, looking for something that would distract him.

  He was intrigued by Harland and found himself eager to know more about him. What lay beneath that grim exterior? What sort of man was he?

  And he wondered how he would feel about his adversary when the time came to finish things.

  Frowning, he put the car into gear, and set off out of the village.

  He followed the valleys, coasting along quiet roads through rolling green countryside as far as Bath. There he turned aside, hopping on the motorway to skirt around the north side of Bristol, then sweeping down the M5 as it crept out towards the coast. The sun was hot now, and there was a deep blue sky behind the towering red cranes and pale wind turbines that broke the horizon. Anticipation stirred in him as he saw the sign for his exit and moved across to the left-hand lane, but he mastered his impatience, reminding himself that this was only the beginning of what ought to be an intriguing game.

  He stopped at some motorway services for a dreadful lunch and several cups of coffee, finally driving into Portishead late in the afternoon. Getting there too early would ha
ve been dangerous – a lone man spending the whole day sitting in his car would surely attract attention, and he couldn’t afford that.

  Turning onto South Avenue, his eyes swept along the line of parked cars, looking for a space. There! He would go up to the end of the road and turn around so that he was facing down the hill, better able to see who came and went from the police station.

  He didn’t know what time Harland’s shift finished – he wasn’t sure if the detective was even at work today – but that was all right. He was prepared to take his time on this one.

  Finding a place to turn the car, he crept back down the slope and pulled into the space, close to the pavement. Switching off the engine, he undid his seatbelt, feeling the warmth of the sun through his shirt as he wriggled about in his seat, trying to get comfortable. Then, leaning back against the headrest, he settled in for a long wait.

  Last time he’d come here it had been on a whim. Idle curiosity about the man who was investigating him, and a few spare hours in Bristol, had brought him to this quiet street. This time he had a purpose, and the thought of what lay ahead invigorated him, an eager thrill that coursed through his body.

  What was Harland really like? Did he live here in Portishead or somewhere further away? Was he married or living with anyone? There were so many questions to answer. Clearly he was an intelligent man, which was a relief, as an idiot would have been poor sport and this was one game he wanted to savour.

  Gazing down the road, he studied the squat police building – two storeys of functional bricks and windows, mercifully screened by trees – and the entrance porch, with its noticeboard and anti-crime posters.

  Was Harland inside? And if he was, what time would he finish work?

  He’d seen one or two people go in and out – uniformed police officers for the most part, plus one overweight woman with a small dog in tow. He wondered what she had been there for – to report lost property probably. She certainly didn’t look like a criminal.

  He smiled to himself.

  Wasn’t that one of the reasons why he’d never been stopped? People’s prejudices blinded them to so much. They were instantly wary of the wrong accent, the wrong clothing, the wrong neighbourhood. But they couldn’t see past his manners, his grooming, his success.

  By the time they realised who he was, it was always much too late.

  He stretched then rubbed his eyes for a moment, shaking off the drowsiness that the sun and the warmth of the car encouraged. It was important to stay alert – he mustn’t doze off. Sitting up, he switched on the radio and forced himself to concentrate on the presenter’s chatter as his eyes glanced back to the police-station entrance.

  It was just after six when the glass door opened and the familiar lean figure emerged. There, just a few dozen yards away from him! Naysmith gripped the steering wheel and sank lower in his seat as Harland stepped down onto the concrete paving and paused to light a cigarette. The man looked tired as he exhaled a pale breath of smoke, then continued his weary walk round the building. Was he going towards the car park? Excellent!

  Wide awake now, Naysmith watched as Harland disappeared from view. Eyes never leaving the side of the building, he reached forward and started the engine in readiness. Sure enough, moments later, a metallic-grey Ford emerged from behind the police station.

  Pulse thumping in his ears, Naysmith pulled out and stole down the road after it.

  They turned left at the old whitewashed pub where Harland had once brushed past him, and accelerated out of the town. It was the same route he had followed on his way down here – were they heading for the motorway?

  Approaching the circular junction above the M5, Naysmith had to brake gently so as not to get too close. Up until now there would be nothing odd about having one car in your rear-view mirror – this seemed to be the main route in and out of Portishead – but from here on he’d need to start being less visible. As Harland pulled onto the roundabout, Naysmith delayed a little, allowing another car to slip in between them. They passed over the motorway, as though they were going round to join the southbound carriageway, but the grey Ford drifted across to the left-hand lane and exited onto a road signposted for Clifton.

  Clifton …

  Naysmith smiled to himself.

  The road climbed steadily now, sweeping through a couple of tiny hamlets as it pushed on towards high, open ground. Cresting one particular rise, Naysmith thought he could glimpse the Severn Bridge, looking oddly small in the distance, far away to his left …

  … but this was no time to become distracted – he had to keep his eyes on the target.

  There were two cars between them now, but Harland was still only a short distance ahead. Naysmith had promised himself he wasn’t going to rush things, wasn’t going to take risks. He’d let Harland get away from him if he had to – he could always lie in wait for him, now that he knew the car – but so far he’d been lucky.

  As they came down the hill into Bristol, the car in front of him turned off, leaving just one vehicle between him and his target. They reached the outskirts, crossing a roundabout and negotiating a bewildering couple of junctions – for a moment, Harland was directly in front of him until another car merged in between them as they drove out from an underpass.

  The city started abruptly – suddenly there were Victorian terraces lining the right-hand side of the street, while sturdy old industrial buildings loomed up on the left. Naysmith leaned forward to gaze up at one particularly impressive red-brick warehouse, then dragged his attention back to the road again and scowled.

  The car in front of him was going very slowly – Harland was opening up too much of a gap, getting too far ahead of him.

  Come on, for God’s sake!

  There were trees on the left now, and larger houses on the right. No chance to overtake here – too much traffic coming the other way. Ahead of him, Harland’s grey Ford disappeared from view around a bend in the road.

  Come on!

  Naysmith’s fingers gripped the steering wheel in frustration as they cruised onwards, following the tarmac as it curved round to the right. There! A little way ahead, he could see the grey Ford waiting, indicating right before disappearing down a side street.

  Yes!

  He slowed and waited for a break in the oncoming traffic before turning into the quiet little residential street. It didn’t look as though it was on the way to anywhere – he must be getting close. The houses were pressed in tightly here and the curve of the road obscured his view. Was that Harland’s car further along, turning right again? It was difficult to see, but he couldn’t rush – he had to be careful.

  There was no sign of the detective when he got to the turning, but he decided to follow his instincts and take the right-hand way – a sign on one of the houses read Stackpool Road.

  This was a very narrow street, climbing steadily as it curved. Naysmith drove slowly, leaning forward to peer out over the steering wheel.

  Grey Ford, grey Ford …

  There were cars parked on either side of the street. He edged forward, eyes narrowing.

  Was that it up ahead? Yes!

  Sighing with satisfaction, he leaned back into his seat, driving on slowly. There was Harland now, that same lonely figure walking back down the pavement – he must live in one of the semi-detached houses that Naysmith had passed on the left-hand side.

  No matter – he would find the right one soon enough.

  Naysmith smiled to himself …

  … and then jammed on the brakes.

  There. Parked a few doors further up the street from the grey Ford.

  It was Kim’s car.

  And suddenly, in one terrible moment, he understood. A crushing wave of nausea swept over him and the cold knot of jealousy tightened in his stomach.

  His hand shook as he clawed at the gear stick, ramming it into first as he accelerated away up the hill, his breathing shallow as he tried to get his head round the flood of images that rose unbidden in his mind. Harland ta
king her hand, leading her inside, closing the door behind them. The engine shrieked as he over-revved it, moving faster still, swerving up the narrow street, parked cars whipping by in a blur. Kim resting her head on Harland’s shoulder, placing her small hand on his chest, looking up into his eyes …

  And then he was thrown forward, stamping the brake pedal into the floor as his subconscious registered a red Mini turning out of a side road, both cars skidding to a shuddering halt.

  It was impossible to control the rage, but his seatbelt held him back, restrained him for a vital few seconds while his eyes stared wildly at the other driver – a man in his thirties who was stupidly getting out to confront him.

  Jabbing at the release button, Naysmith flung off the seatbelt, ignoring the metal fastener as it cracked against the window. Throwing his door open, he sprang out to stand on the tarmac, furious and eager.

  He saw the bluster and bravado drain from the other driver’s face, noted the hesitation, the involuntary step back.

  ‘Get out of my fucking way!’ he snarled, fists clenching in readiness.

  ‘Hey, what the hell—!’ the man began, but Naysmith silenced him.

  ‘Move!’ he roared, advancing towards him, using all the self-control he had to turn his anger on the car rather than on the driver. ‘MOVE!’

  He struck out with his leg, smashing his heel into the front grille, then again, and again, shattering the nearside headlight.

  The man was already scrambling back inside, jerking his door shut as he threw the car into reverse. The Mini lurched backwards, weaving an erratic retreat down the side street, to leave Naysmith alone, taut and shaking in the middle of the crossroads.

  He turned and gazed back down the hill. Towards the house. Towards her.

  Harland had crossed the line. Now, it was personal.

  48

  Wednesday, 17 September

  There was a reassuring air of chaos in the little café. The two women behind the counter appeared to be mother and daughter – one in her thirties, the other her fifties – and they fussed and argued with a lifetime’s familiarity. An exasperated sigh greeted each new customer, and there were grave warnings about how long it might be if people wanted anything hot – ‘We’re unusually busy today!’ – despite the place being half empty. And yet the food always arrived, and everything tasted good.